I Am Become Death
by Rainwoman
Summary: A bleak view of what might have happened to Sands.


Title: I Am Become Death  
Author: Hannah 'Rainwoman' Orlove )  
Fandom: Once Upon A Time In Mexico  
Rating: R

Disclaimer: I don't own them. I have no money, just a few back issues of _Green Lantern_ and _X-Men_. Please don't sue.

It would have been better if they'd left me to die.

If they had thrown me out of the room sans eyes, I could have managed. Could have stayed just one step ahead, could have known their moves before they made them. Blindness isn't easy to get used to, but I could have managed it.

I'd have managed it if they hadn't kept me.

I know I'm underground because the walls are always cool and there's a heating vent on the floor near where I sleep – I don't have a bed, just a mattress – and the guards say it's nicer "down here" this time of year.

So it's spring or summer, but I don't know that except by secondhand news. And they could have said that to confuse me. I have no idea of what's real here. They don't want me to get an idea of where I am.

I can't use any echoes to navigate because there aren't any. They keep sounds on all the time here. Not just mariachi music – God knows I don't need the reminder – but everything they can get their hands on. Recordings of their own speech, to keep me confused about what's going on. Sounds of the highway. Film dialogue, from Al Jolsen to Hugh Jackman. Bocelli declaring his love for someone. Elvis crooning. Ella Fitzgerald singing with Joe Pass. Christmas carols, Easter blessings, mourning dirges. They've even got Judy, for days when I've been really good.

In here, three of the walls are solid clay, with the exception of the vent. They won't even let me shit in privacy in here. The last wall is a bunch of windows and a door. I heard Barillo 2.0 laugh when I tried to find my way around here when I woke up.

They feed me so I can't confiscate any silverware. They bathe me like a baby, shave my face, keep my hair trimmed. They're doing their best to make me helpless.

It would have been better if they'd killed me.

They took my eyes, but they didn't try to kill me. I'm not worth killing. Isn't that a hoot? I almost cause the death of the two highest ranking members of the Barillo cartel, orchestrate a coup d'état that almost kills the current president, and I'm to blame for the death of Marquez.

One out of three. Though I'll admit the death of the cartel members would have been more of a bonus than anything else.

2.0 is still around, amassing more wealth than he knows what to do with, so he just gives it back to the people who buy and sell his drugs. Seven town, evidently, each with at least eight thousand citizens who owe their lives to him. They're better protection from bullets than Kevlar.

Barilla still likes to call me a monkey.

They don't even pump me for information. I'm not worth killing, but I'm not worth anything alive, except as entertainment value, or a warning to others: "This is what happens when you cross our path."

They've used me seven times so far. I'm dressed in soft clothing and taken upstairs during negotiations. I just stand or sit quietly in a corner. I know what might happen to me if I try to escape – I could handle losing my ears or my eyes, but not both. That would be too much.

Everyone but the Barillos hates to look at me. Even the guards do, and they're used to me. The visitors must find me horrendous. I don't know what I look like now but I'm pretty sure it's not pleasant. I can make a good guess, though: Pale skin, really dark hair, no eyes, gaunt face – they never feed me enough. Well, you know what they say. "Death be not proud."

If they'd taken my ears, it would have been better. They wouldn't be able to show me off as easily, and I wouldn't be able to hear their gasps. I could still read. I might be able to get out of here.

I wouldn't have to listen to the sounds Barilla likes to make for me.

She'll have me taken from my room and tied to a chair or bed somewhere else. I can't cover my ears, so I can't block out sounds.

If I'm on the chair, I hear her moaning and whimpering, making the sounds I used to elicit in her.

Then I hear 2.0 making those sounds.

I have no way of knowing if he's doing something to her, or if she's doing something to him, or if they're just masturbating in front of me, or if it's a recording they made years ago.

I have no way of knowing.

Sometimes when I'm tied to the bed, I'm given a blowjob. They switch off, with him one time and her next.

Barilla likes to get me hard, get on top, and hold a gun to my chin and have me get her off. Her dad likes it when I'm quiet and compliant.

I don't cry anymore. My tear ducts are ruined. I wouldn't even if I could, though.

I won't give them the satisfaction.

But sometimes, when it's quieter and cooler and they've got some soft strains of classical music playing, I slip into dreams. I can't tell when I start sleeping – that's the trouble living in darkness and having no eyes: how can you tell if you're asleep?

I see in my dreams. I remember freedom, and the feel of sunlight, and the sound of trees, and the taste of meat.

I see what could have been: the blind gunfighter, El Hombre Sin Ojos, carving out his own legend inside of Mexico.

It would have been better to live crippled than to die, and it would have been better to die than to live as this…this thing that I am now.

It would have been better if they'd left me to die.


End file.
